


NaN

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, F/M, FOB cameo, Grey-A, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Relationship Negotiation, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Voyeurism, consensual torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harold is gray asexual, and shares John out like gourmet candy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NaN

**Author's Note:**

> Some elaboration of tags in ending notes. If there's some tag I forgot, please let me know!
> 
> Talkingtothesky and violentdaylight beta'd this: all the thanks to them, all blame for remaining errors to me <3
> 
> The timeline in this story is a mess and I don't even care. John and Harold operate out of the library, but Root is their ally; also FOB here are portrayed like it's 2007. I don't know. Possibly a time lord was involved?
> 
> Inspirations for this fic include [this tumblr post about consensual torture](http://lurkerviolin.tumblr.com/post/131465957665/look-fam-im-not-a-sadist-i-just-my-interests) and [Sex Scenes Your New Boyfriend's Too Vanilla To Read About](http://archiveofourown.org/works/266938), another fic involving one character picking sex partners for another.

"It's not a good idea," Harold says, resigned.

It's not a no, so John kisses him again. Harold kisses back, just barely, opening his mouth to let John in, a breach of boundaries that has John dizzy with the sheer amount of possibilities it suggests.

Then Harold pushes him away, holding him at arms' length, resolute. "I really can't." His mouth firms. "I _won't_."

If John's honest, Harold has a lot of reasons not to sleep with him. John goes for the most obvious one. "Do you think I'm doing this out of obligation?" He raises his eyebrows. "Because you're not that pathetic, Harold."

"Thank you, I'm aware." By the sudden frost in Harold's tone, that wasn't his main concern. 

John sighs and changes tack, nuzzling Harold's neck. "Then what?" 

Harold doesn't really respond to the contact. His hand hovers over John's shoulder, close enough for John to feel its warmth. "You're a passionate man, Mr. Reese. I'm not."

John draws back. "Are you saying you've been toying with my affections for nothing, Harold?" A tentative, hopeful smile rises to his lips. "I thought you were better than that."

"So did I," Harold snaps, with a frustration that seems unwarranted. He takes his hand back, dropping it stiffly at his side. "John. No."

As simple as a command to the dog, and as effective. John moves away. He's already making plans: he may have lost the battle, but the campaign is ongoing, and John's got some experience with guerrilla fighting.

~~

It's Harold who makes the first move, although John doesn't realize it until the beautiful redhead who'd been aggressively flirting with him for most of the evening blankly says, "You're not interested at all, are you? But your friend--"

John leans closer, and silkily says, "My friend, what?"

He comes back to the library with cheer on his face and murder in his heart. "Are you feeling bored, Harold?"

Harold turns around in his chair, eyeing John warily. "I can't say I am."

"I think you need a hobby," John says. "One that isn't setting me up with strangers."

Harold's mouth tightens. "I feel you and Ms. Bright would have suited one another very well."

John fights dirty. He swaggers up to Harold and kneels before him with fluid grace. "I don't think she'd suit me at all," John says softly. "And I think you know that."

Being on his knees is a good look for John. He knows this. Harold just looks resigned, though, enough to make John fleetingly wonder if he miscalculated after all. "Fine. I won't interfere. I'll admit I shouldn't have done so to begin with, and I apologize. Does that suffice?"

John stays right where he is. "It really doesn't."

They maintain this silent détente for another moment. Then Harold exhales. "What do you imagine I'd do with you, as you are, right now?"

It's not dirty talk. Harold's trying to make a point, though what kind of point, John has no clue. So when he says, "I have a few ideas," it's tentative, not suggestive.

"Sexual in nature?" Harold asks. More than anything, he looks tired. There are lines on his face that look like pain, and John abruptly wonders if he's taken the wrong approach after all.

He moves to sit cross-legged, easier to maintain for a long time. "You could read to me," he says, and rests his head over Harold's thigh. When Harold's fingers sink into his hair, he closes his eyes and basks in the sense of triumph.

~~

The thing is, John doesn't really need much to be happy. A few kisses, Harold's hand on his shoulders or the back of his neck, and he's good. Harold's the one who gets twitchy.

"It's such a waste," Harold grumbles. John can't bring himself to mind, sprawled on the couch with his head in Harold's lap. When Harold's hand stills, though, he makes a questioning noise, mostly in hopes of getting it moving again. 

"I am aware that you're beautiful," Harold says, matter-of-factly. John buries his face in Harold's stomach to keep from preening. "You would be a generous, skilled lover, and instead you frustrate yourself waiting on me."

"I'm not frustrated," John points out. It's not strictly true. It's just that he finds he enjoys it, the resting state ache of his hard cock, constrained until the end of the day when he takes his clothes off and relives every single touch. 

Without preamble, Harold reaches down and drags his hand over the bulge in John's pants, making him suck in a desperate breath, let out a strangled, "Please," before he can bite his lip to refrain from saying more. "Sorry," he says, once he's got himself under control.

"You shouldn't be. That's the point." When John looks up, Harold's eyes are on him, wide and concerned. From his current position, it's clear that Harold isn't even a little bit aroused. "And yet, I worry that stopping this, at this point, would do more harm than good."

That's an interpretation that John wants to support. He nuzzles into Harold's hands. That, Harold does like, evidenced by the way he responds and pets John more. Harold likes kissing, likes touching, likes sharing John's bed on occasion. He doesn't like sex, but John wasn't having a lot sex before this started, either, and didn't enjoy the sex he did have all that much. This is a net improvement, as far as he's concerned. "If I feel deprived, I'll let you know."

"Will you?" Harold sounds vaguely despairing, but his hands are sure on John's skin, knowledgeable. John happily shivers and closes his eyes.

~~

"But you don't _understand_ ," Lenny says, giving John a despairing look. 

John folds his arms. "Try me."

Lenny's the latest number, a brilliant computer prodigy who recently started working for extremely dangerous people. If John manages to get him to back out now, he'll probably make it with all his limbs intact, but Lenny seems resolute to tempt fate.

"They said I could have anything I wanted. Any _one_." Lenny's voice is wistful, his eyes moving down John's body with equal parts lust and misery. "I bet you never had anyone turn you down."

John makes an executive decision, moves half before he realizes he made it, then freezes. "Scuse me," he tells Lenny. "Be back in a minute."

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, he calls Harold. "A honeypot operation would be the easiest and quickest way to resolve this," he says. "But if you don't want me to, I won't."

Harold makes an exasperated little noise. "I don't own you, Mr. Reese. You're perfectly capable of making your own choices."

John's heart painfully thuds in his chest. "Okay," he says, dull, and turns to move outside.

"Mr. Reese." Harold clears his throat, and adds, "John," in a softer voice. "I don't wish to imply that I take our relationship lightly, or that it doesn't matter to me. It does, a great deal; possibly more than you will ever know."

Yeah, John doesn't buy that last one. He snorts pointedly.

"Or perhaps you do," Harold concedes. "It's only that I'm concerned. If you wish to, and I told you to refrain, I'd feel as though I were exercising control over you that I had no right to. If you didn't want to, and I told you to proceed, that would be... considerably worse."

And just like that, John can breathe again. "Harold," he says, drawing the name out, "you do have a right. I'm _giving_ you the right, if you'll take it."

"Oh," Harold says. And then, " _Oh_ ," his tone almost gleeful. "I see. In that case, Mr. Reese, please give our number some incentive not to turn to a life of crime."

John smirks. "Sure thing."

The trip to the bathroom lost him a little momentum with Lenny, but it isn't anything another drink couldn't fix. Lenny likes to vent. He's not a bad kid, really, just young and stupid in a way only really brilliant people can be.

"I mean, how much pussy do you think knowing firewall vulnerabilities get you?" Lenny gesticulates with his drink, spilling a little bit. "Or dick, I mean, God knows I can't afford to be picky."

It's terrible, but it's an opening. John's gone with worse. He slides a bit closer to Lenny and breathes, "You'd be surprised," into his ear.

Next to him, Lenny freezes.

Harold huffs a laugh in John's ear. "You managed to both utterly terrify and arouse him with a single sentence. Very efficient, but may I suggest a more gentle approach?"

John takes that under advisement. He brushes subtly close to Lenny. "Let's go to your place." Lenny's practically vibrating with desire as he nods agreement.

It's nice, feeling lusted after by someone harmless and friendly. John won't lie, he'd have liked it better if it came from Harold, but as that's not going to happen, he'll appreciate what he gets. 

Right now, what he gets is Lenny naked on his bed, moaning ecstatically around John's dick. He's obviously an amateur, but John can't really mind when his dick is in someone's mouth and Lenny sounds like he's going to come from just that.

"Do you think you could fuck his face without choking him?" Harold says suddenly, and John's hips move without his own volition.

Lenny makes a high-pitched muffled noise, sucking furiously. John grips his hair, moving in and out of his mouth, pulling hard enough to make it feel like he's being rougher than he is. 

"Gonna come," John says. When Lenny ignores him, John physically pulls him away. The timing is a little awkward, so he ends up giving Lenny an unintended pearl necklace.

Lenny blinks at him, glassy eyed, humps the bed a few times in a frenzy and finally shudders and stills. 

John surrenders to the urge to ruffle Lenny's hair before getting off the bed. "You be good, now," he tells Lenny, "and maybe you'll get a repeat performance." He's not too worried. Lenny's looking blissed-out and half asleep. That is not the expression of a man desperate enough to work for the mob.

~~

It's late, but Harold is still at the library when John gets there. He's on the couch, an empty space by his side with John's name on it. John happily collapses, crowding into Harold.

Harold's fingers run through John's hair. "Did you have a good time?"

"Mmm." John's eyes half flutter shut. Sex makes him sleepy, when he's around people he can trust not to stab him before he wakes up. "Pretty nice. Good instincts, there."

"Thank you." Harold doesn't volunteer how he came by with the insight. Instead, he says, "I have a proposition." 

"Oh?"

Harold hesitates. "You've objected before, when I tried to acquaint you with people who I thought might suit you. Tonight makes me wonder if I didn't simply mistake some of the parameters."

John opens his eyes. "My issue wasn't that you set me up with a _woman_ , Harold," he says pointedly.

"I do realize." Harold gives him a rueful look. "Suppose it was done with the understanding that the match was strictly an uncommitted plan to, ah, enjoy one another's company for an evening?"

For a moment, John says nothing, processing. "This really doesn't bother you at all?"

Again, Harold takes his time before replying. "This is... I'm not entirely uninterested in the process." John shifts subtly, trying to seem as attentive as he can be. "Human sexuality is _fascinating_ ," Harold says finally, in a rush. "The communication protocols involved, the variations in hardware, so to speak-- and yet, there are few opportunities to, mm, make my own observations."

John raises his eyebrows at Harold, apparently the world's biggest voyeur.

Harold's shoulders draw up in affront. "I hope you don't think I'd survey innocent people for prurient interest." 

Which does leave out the less innocent. A thought strikes John. "Harold," he says in delight, "have you been watching me?"

"Always," Harold says promptly, but his ears turn pink. "I needed to see whether this arrangement was frustrating you needlessly. And I was right."

John lets himself go entirely liquid against Harold's side. "Maybe I like being frustrated."

This seems to stump Harold, if not satisfy him. He lets out a breath. "Maybe _I_ like knowing that you're satisfied. Which, I agree, does not preclude some degree of self-denial, but there is such a thing as taking it too far." His fingers run down John's neck. "What downside do you see to the arrangement I'm proposing?"

"No downside," John says easily. 

"Then you're just being difficult?" Harold's voice is wry, though, and his thumb has found a knot in John's shoulder, putting just the perfect amount of pressure against it.

John makes a noncommittal grunt. Yeah, true, he likes winding Harold up. Chalk it up to that.

~~

"Our number is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III," Harold says, "known as Pete Wentz. A musician." His mouth takes a little downturn at the word, which is always entertaining.

"I take it your don't like his genre?" John says. "What is it, dance music?"

"He and his band define themselves as pop-punk, apparently." Harold's lips handle the word like a housekeeper holding a dead mouse by its tail. "They have quite a following, mainly teenage girls. They're booked for a show in the city tonight and tomorrow before continuing their tour."

John starts by familiarizing himself with the venue. God, he hopes nothing happens during the show: the crowd will make it a nightmare. Then he stakes out the hotel where they're staying and waits.

Wentz comes out in the afternoon, accompanied by a slightly shorter man wearing a hat and a surly expression. 

"Patrick Stump," Harold says through the earpiece. "Lead singer and supposed best friend of Mr. Wentz." 

"Doesn't look happy." John follows them with his eyes. "Any chance he might have a grudge?"

"Hmm." Distantly, John hears Harold typing. "Apparently, Mr. Wentz is the front man, even though Mr. Stump is the lead singer. A disproportionate amount of media attention seems to go to Mr. Wentz, to his bandmates' cost."

Sudden movement catches John's eye. Wentz is flagging a taxi. "I'm on them," he tells Harold, and follows it.

The taxi drops them in a parking lot. John parks a little way away and trails them by foot, careful to stay hidden. There's a distraught-looking girl waiting for them in the lot, hugging herself.

John opens the audio link to Wentz's phone. "You shouldn't have come," the girl says, sounding miserable. 

"Then why did you ask me to?" Wentz says, and then a couple of heavies step out of a nearby car.

"Max made me." John hears tears in the girl's voice, and there's a third man coming up behind her. John can see he's carrying. The girl says, "I'm sorry," and then John's running.

He gets there a few moments too late: the men have left with Stump and Wentz tied up in their car, the girl still there, tears smearing her mascara. 

It's easy enough to get the story out of her. She's been corresponding with Wentz, her boyfriend - Max - found out and decided that nobody makes a move on his girl, threatened to shoot her dog if she didn't lure Wentz here to meet her.

"He didn't even hit on me." The girl sniffles. "He was just nice, you know? Pete, I mean. He kept telling me I deserved better."

"You do," John says. She smiles. Even with the mascara smeared, she's very pretty. "Any idea where Max might have taken them?"

~~

Removing the threat is simple enough. John doesn't even have to shoot anyone. He calls Carter in once Max and his friends are subdued, then lurks in the shadows, waiting for Stump and Wentz to finish their business with the police. They both look okay - Wentz gesticulating wildly and bouncing on his toes, Stump quietly hanging back. 

"Everything alright, Mr. Reese?" Harold asks through the earpiece.

"Sure seems that way." John's still tense. That felt a little too easy: he believes in counting his blessings, but he also believes in triple-checking that they're not curses in disguise. 

Once they've given their statement, Wentz bounds to the girl, whose name is Jessica. He tentatively puts his arm over her shoulder; she snuggles in and they walk away deep in conversation. Stump's got his hands shoved in his pockets, and he glares at Wentz before abruptly making a turn in the opposite direction.

John falls into step next to him. "Hey."

Stump startles, but eases down quickly enough. "Hi. Uh, thanks for saving our asses there." He smiles tentatively, and it transforms his entire face. "I told Pete it was stupid to go see her alone, but he never listens. At least he let me tag along." His face turns bitter again. "For all the good that did."

In John's ear, Harold says, "He kept Mr. Wentz calm, and helped the keep the situation from escalating. Tell him so, if you please." 

If Harold says so, then it's probably true. And even if it isn't, saying it can't do any harm, and might make Stump happier. Why not?

It makes Stump _blush_ , which is. Huh. 

"John," Harold says abruptly. "Ask Mr. Stump whether he'd like a ride back to his hotel." 

John does, taking the moment when Stump is entering the car to whisper, "Any other danger?"

"None that I can see." He hears the smile in Harold's voice. "But I think you might enjoy a few hours in his company."

Oh. If John tended to blush, he might have emulated Stump at that moment. 

Or-- not Stump, not if he's sleeping with the guy. "Patrick," he says, testing the name on his tongue.

"Yeah?" He turns to look at John, and now that it's been pointed out to him John can see interest in the quick, furtive way Patrick's eyes dart to his chest, the unselfconscious way he bites his lower lip.

It's a very nice lip, full and soft-looking and very red, and John finds himself reacting. "So I'm guessing your room is going to be empty for the next couple hours."

Patrick's eyes go dark, and he nods. "Yeah. Definitely. Yeah," and they are _on_.

There's a brief, amused moment as they walk into the elevator and John realizes that Patrick's eyes are about level with his collarbone. He wonders whether Finch thinks he has a _type_ , whether from here on he's going to be set up with guys who are smaller and younger than him, guys he can move around and push down into the mattress.

He shuts the door to Patrick's room behind them and sits down on the bed. Patrick's hands bunch in the lapels of John's jacket. "So we're doing this?" 

"We are," John says, and then _he's_ being pushed down into the mattress.

Patrick's mouth on his is hot and demanding, nipping John when he won't open up quickly enough. He slides easily between John's open thighs, rocking their hard dicks together, and scrabbles for John's fly.

John pulls away to tell him, "I got it," out of breath all of a sudden. Patrick's eyes are hot on him as John takes his own clothes off with a soldier's efficiency. 

Patrick doesn't undress himself, only pushes John back down and scrambles back to swallow John's cock.

The back of John's head hits the mattress with a _thump_. "Oh," he says, weakly. This isn't amateur; this is fucking professional-grade cocksucking, that mouth more than living up to its appearance. Patrick knows what he's doing, and he's not afraid to use that knowledge. A few moments in, teeth make an appearance. It's not novice clumsiness: it's painstakingly deliberate, calculated to make John tremble.

Words don't really work for him anymore, so he has to make do with pulling Patrick's hair to indicate his approaching orgasm. It works, though, Patrick letting him go with a popping noise. "Can I fuck you?" Patrick asks.

Instead of replying John groans and spreads his legs further, pushing his pelvis up off the bed. 

Patrick's eyes follow him. "Fuck, you're hot."

John smiles at him. In his earpiece, Harold says, "I've taken the liberty of putting supplies in your jacket's inner pocket." John bends to pick that up from the floor, just managing to open said pocket and get out a condom and a single-use pack of lube, which he hands to Patrick.

"Oh, hey, good stuff," Patrick says, slicking his fingers. "I can't even remember the last time I used something that wasn't lotion or, like, spit."

"I certainly wouldn't allow that," Harold says. John can just imagine the disapproving set of his mouth. "It has been a while for you, and you need better care than that."

As though Patrick heard him, he adds, "For jerking off, I mean, I wouldn't fuck someone with just spit for lube. That's rude," and then his slick fingers breach John and he stops listening.

Patrick has deft, capable hands, and they feel good working John open. "Ngh," he says, and Harold says, "Tell him to add another finger." John does.

"Okay," Patrick says finally, sounding shaky. "Are you ready?"

Harold echoes: "Are you, John?"

"Yeah," John says, to both of them. Because Harold had a point, he adds, "Take it easy, it's been a while."

Patrick's cock is nice and thick, stretching him out, and Patrick's patient enough for the burn to be fun rather than something that needs to be endured. The lube really is good quality, and even the small amount the single-serve packet contained is sufficient: no surprise there, given that Harold bought it. John closes his eyes and sinks into the sensation, feeling himself opening by increments, full.

"Yeah," Patrick says softly. He kisses John slow and deep, pushing into him slow and shallow until he bottoms out. Then he rocks in and out, taking his time to build up a rhythm.

Finally, he pauses, and shifts, and his dick glides right over John's prostate.

John can't help himself: he rears up, shoving back, wanting more. Patrick gives it to him, hands on John's shoulder holding him in place, his dick mercilessly hitting that sweet spot over and over. Then there is hot breath on John's neck, and _teeth_ , closing just to the point of pain, and John curses and comes.

Once John finishes shaking, Patrick goes back to the shallow rocking movements until he stills with an exhale. His hair is soft when John pets it. So is the rest of him, at odds with how he took charge of the encounter, but John should be used to his expectations being defied by now. 

John uses the hotel's shower before heading out. Patrick kisses him at the door. 

"Give him your card," Harold instructs. John hands one to Patrick, saying, "Next time you're in New York, give me a call." Patrick takes it with a smile.

The hotel isn't too far from the library. John walks back, enjoying the sunshine on his face, the briskness of the air. 

"So correct me if I'm wrong," Harold says to John - in the flesh, now, back under the shades of the stacks, "but I believe our proof of concept went very well."

"Is that what you want to call it?" John says, deeply amused. "I'd say so, too."

Harold's hand takes hold of the back of his neck, drawing him into a leisurely kiss. "Good," Harold says once they break apart for air. He's smiling slightly, eyes twinkling.

"And you?" John says. "Were we interesting?"

"Oh, exceptionally." There's no hint of sarcasm in Harold's voice. "I hope you won't mind if I look into introducing some variety in your potential partners - the individual dynamics of each possible relationship is fascinating. You are, of course," he adds, "always at liberty to refuse. At any point."

"I'll keep that in mind." For now, John would rather kiss Harold, wrap them up in one another. Appreciate this new sensual combination, the satisfied thrum of his own body with Harold's touch and scent. 

Harold's arms open to him, bringing him close. "John," he says, his voice low and intimate. "Oh, John."

~~

"You're meeting Ms. Morgan in an hour," Harold says, and gives him an address. 

John frowns. "We have a number?"

"No." Harold gives that a moment to sink in. "I thought you might want to get a change of clothes?"

John looks down at his customary suit and frowns. "What's wrong with what I have on now?"

"I suspect," Harold says, "that she might take exception to the blood stain on the back of your jacket."

John doesn't stop walking, but he does step into a diner that has a large mirror on the back wall when one comes up in his way. He can't quite turn his head around enough, but he can catch the edge of the stain even so. He stifles a curse and heads home.

In one way, it turns out to be waste of time. Thirty minutes after he steps into her apartment Zoe has him on his knees, hands crossed behind his back, naked but for a leash and a collar.

In another way, John's glad that he had time to shower. Even as it is, Zoe raises an immaculately groomed eyebrow at him. "It's called manscaping, John. Perhaps you've heard of it?" Her tone is the one she usually takes with him: friendly, with a hint of challenge.

Normally when John has to face that tone he's not on his knees and half-hard just from the idea of what's about to happen. His reactions might be a tad atypical.

There's just something about Zoe. How self-possessed she is, how she looks at John like she knows exactly what she wants to do with him and is just waiting for him to catch up. It's always made his mouth go dry in a combination of lust and terror. He's not sure at all he _can_ keep up with Zoe, who makes a living on cobweb-like social networks that John mostly knows how to wave his gun through.

She sits down and extends her foot to him. John is intensely grateful when Harold tells him to take her shoes off. 

"Rub her feet," Harold says next. "Anyone who makes it through the day in those kind of heels deserves a massage."

John wishes he could ask Harold if he's talking from experience. He'll have to remember that for later. He's smiling at the thought when Zoe's hand lands on his shoulder.

"I generally prefer not to have uninvited company in my bedroom," she tells John with her mouth in a thin line. She holds a hand out. “I can tell when you’re not listening to me, you know. If your friend wants to join us, he can do it in person.”

After a short moment of hesitation, John takes his earpiece out and gives it to her, ignoring a pang of worry. Harold knows where he is. Worst case, he can call Zoe's phone if there's a problem.

Harold was right. Zoe's got a lot of tension in her feet and calves. John likes the noises she makes, low and husky, when he gets just the right spot, likes the uncomplicated physicality of it. 

Then Zoe says, "My polish is flaking," in a dissatisfied tone, and John halts.

Zoe's not looking at him, but her position is expectant. She wants him to do something about what she just said, take initiative. 

The drawer on her side is half-opened, and there are bottles of nail polish peeking from it. John opens it cautiously and takes a bottle of dark red.

"With this skirt, John?" Zoe says. "Really?"

John puts the bottle back in place and chooses a pink one instead.

"I don't know why I bother," Zoe mutters, putting her legs on the floor, and John stiffens.

He's expecting the hand that grabs him by the hair. He's not expecting Zoe's thoughtful expression. "You're not enjoying this at all, are you?" she muses. "I'd've expected... well, never mind." Her smile is tolerant, amused. Unbearable. "We could just have sex if you want."

"I want what you want." John's tone is probably too flat to be convincing. 

Make that definitely too flat, given that Zoe says, "Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel special," in that voice she uses when she's not exactly kidding.

She gets up abruptly and walks away. John watches her type something into her phone, sick with indecision and himself. He should get up, put his clothes back on. Walk away and forget today ever happened. She's unlocking the door. John could be gone before she comes back. That will probably be his last chance with her, but some things just don't work. No point forcing them.

He's really not expecting to hear a knock on the door followed by someone coming in, but he relaxes immediately when he hears Harold's voice. "May I consider this an invitation into your bedroom, then?"

"Certainly," Zoe says. "And will you be participating, or...?"

"I prefer to remain uninvolved in the proceedings," Harold says primly, but now John can see the sly, subtle curve of his mouth.

That gets a full, throaty laugh out of Zoe, and just like that, John is fully hard again. "You keep telling yourself that." She settles back in the chair, extending her leg to John.

"The fuchsia, I think," Harold says. "Third bottle from the right."

"A bold choice." Zoe sounds approving. John just picks the damn bottle up.

Harold continues giving instructions. Like this, the process is actually relaxing: Harold breaks the whole process down into small tasks John can easily accomplish. Removing the present coat, putting a new one on. John has steady hands, used to delicate work. 

"So you don't mind doing women's work," Zoe says when he's done. "I wondered."

John shrugs. Harold says, "I believe he wasn't enjoying the element of uncertainty, of being set up to fail." He's a touch apologetic, and John's got an urge to make himself smaller, like he's hiding from invisible shooters.

Zoe's cool fingers come to rest over the top of John's head, and he settles. "That's alright," she murmurs. "You know what to do next, don't you?" She spreads her legs.

John likes to think he does. By the way Zoe's breath catches when he uses his tongue on her clit, she agrees.

She lets him make her come like that, quick and easy, then pushes him away. "Moving on. Do you want to bottom or top?" John doesn't say anything, still lost in the smell and feel of her. "There's no wrong answer," Zoe says, a little too close to pity for his own liking.

Before John can somehow ruin this, though, Harold says, "Would you like to ride him, Ms. Morgan?"

"In fact, I would." There's a light dancing in Zoe's eyes, and she gives John a sly smile. "Can you last, or do you need help with that?"

This time, Harold doesn't even give John a chance to answer, simply saying, "He can."

It's a good thing that John really does have the stamina Harold expects of him, because Zoe takes her time. She lets him do most of the work, thrusting from below, which is fine with John. Trying to get a finger on her clit gets his hand lightly slapped away. "Not right now," Zoe says.

Harold makes a considering noise. "If I might make a suggestion...."

_He_ doesn't get a slap, not even a verbal one. "Please do," Zoe says, breathless. 

"Put your finger in your mouth, John," Harold tells him, "and make sure to get it very wet."

It doesn't take a genius to figure where to take it next. Zoe's ass is tight, and John lightly teases the rim with his wet finger, coaxing.

That gets her gasping and grinding against him. John bites his lip, struggling not to get lost in how _good_ she feels enveloping him. 

"Push inside," Harold says, his voice soft and intent. "Carefully now..."

It seems too soon to John, but Zoe's nodding. She flushes beautifully when he gets his finger in her. He swallows at the dizzy realization that he can feel himself moving in her, just across a thin barrier of flesh. A small noise escapes him.

Zoe grins down at him. Hell. She's beautiful, hair messy, as she leans in to kiss him. John wants her to come again, wants to feel it, to know in his flesh that he made her feel good. 

"Now, John," she murmurs, stroking his cheek. "Are you going to come for me?"

He just manages to gasp out, "Ladies first."

She shakes her head. "I already went, remember? Now come, and if you do it nicely, I'll sit on your face and let you finish me off."

That makes John shudder, fucking hard into her, feeling the muscles in his thighs and back strain. "Now?"

"Yes, John." Her hand is cool on his face, wonderful. "Now."

With that he rears up, grunting, thrusts twice more into her and finally lets go, shooting off inside her. She's off him before his breathing evens out, taking the condom off. "Maybe we could do without next time," she says, and John chokes as aftershocks ripple through him. "I'm sure Harold keeps you clean, and I'm on the pill."

"Naturally," Harold says.

"It would be something to make you eat your own come out of me." Zoe smiles at him like she doesn't know each word is making him squirm, spirit more than willing but the flesh definitely spent.

When she straddles his face, his dick _aches_ it wants to get up again so badly. He licks her out sloppily, alternates between fucking his tongue into her and circling her clit. She's dripping into his mouth, wet and relaxed, and the taste of her drowns out everything else.

She comes with a sigh and eases off him. Harold hands him a towel and John gratefully dries his face. Zoe curls up beside him, head pillowed on his shoulder. John runs his fingers down her back.

Harold's still standing near. He has an odd expression on, a familiar one but out of place: his _don't discuss private matters where numbers can hear you_ face. "I'll leave you to rest." He turns for the door.

"Really, Harold?" Zoe says. "Sticking me with cleanup? How ungentlemanly." John's not sure what she's talking about, but it makes Harold turn around. 

He sits on the bed, which makes John feel a little like a plucked string. He's comfortable naked, but it's strange next to Harold still in his three-piece suit. "I suppose you have a point," he says, and lays a hand over John's spent, wet cock.

John makes a noise and tries to move away. Harold's hand is too hot on his cock, too soon after coming. "Harold."

Harold's eyes are kind when he raises them to John's face, which only makes it worse. "Hush, Mr. Reese."

John lets out a whine. It's wrong, so wrong. Harold doesn't want to touch him like this. John doesn't understand.

Then Harold's other hand takes the leash around John's neck and tugs. "I said hush." The command in his voice is perfect, crisp with just a hint of steel backing it up. "Lie back and allow me."

John does as he's told.

"Perhaps I was too strict in my phrasing," Harold says a moment later, after John stifles a moan. "Let me hear you, so long as I don't hear you protesting." 

Something about _that_ phrasing makes John's blood run hot, makes him whine again for completely different reasons. Harold has looped the leash around his wrist to have both hands free, and now he has one hand rolling John's balls as the other jerks his cock. Harold's grip on him is slick and gentle, just skirting the edge of too much, just on the cusp of not enough.

Zoe moves away. John's side feels cold without her, but she's back soon enough, laying a hand over John's thigh. "Spread." She strokes him when he obeys, and then there's slick pressure against his hole: small and blunt, probably some kind of toy. "Now open," she says, and John obeys that, too.

Like this, it _is_ too much. John's shaking and sweating under their combined onslaught, making helpless little noises. He's not even sure why this is happening, what silent communication Harold and Zoe are passing back and forth between them to make him feel like this, like a string pulled taut enough to snap.

When he does, it's a relief. Orgasm lances through him, pleasure intense enough to be indistinguishable from pain. "There," Harold says, and John can hear the faint smile in his voice.

Once John regains enough control of his muscles to sit, Harold gets up and walks to the bathroom. Zoe kisses John on the cheek. "That was fun," she says. "Not to mention eye-opening."

"Was it." The wariness in John's voice is just instinct. Harold wouldn't have let Zoe see anything that would compromise them.

Zoe just smiles.

~~

"So," John says, once they're safely back in the library. "What was that?"

Harold raises an eyebrow at him. 

John leans back with forced casualness, not allowing himself to grit his teeth. "You know what I mean, Harold."

Harold swivels himself in the chair from side to side, small thoughtful movement. "I may have taken some liberties," he says finally, "but I think I could be forgiven for assuming you wouldn't mind."

John minds. John minds a lot, and the worst part is that he's not sure exactly _what_ it is that he minds. 

"Alright," Harold says equably. "In the future, I won't interfere without your express request." His mouth briefly tightens. "I will request your word, though, that you will ask for my interference if you want it, and that you not proceed with these sessions if you cease enjoying them."

That's just too much. "Like you didn't?" John bites out the words.

Harold blinks at him, momentarily confused. Then he seems - of all things - embarrassed. "I let myself get caught up in a game of one-upmanship with Ms. Morgan. That was foolish of me." He stands up and tentatively approaches John, raising his hands to touch or surrender. He stops just short of making contact.

John growls and closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Harold, feeling tension seep out of both of them, leaching into the ground. He can't stand the idea of Harold wanting to touch him and stopping himself, of Harold thinking he isn't allowed.

Harold's next words are spoken into John's shoulder, slightly muffled by his jacket. "Please don't think I find touching you distasteful." His voice is quiet, almost small. "If I thought I could satisfy you with simple contact, I would have offered it long ago: but I believed you would find being sated without being able to reciprocate more frustrating than avoiding the issue altogether." 

Harold swallows. John can feel his throat moving. 

"In the interest of completeness," Harold says, "I do, on occasion, have lustful urges. They are... unpredictable, however. Erratic. And quite rare. I would exceedingly dislike the feeling of making a lover wait for such an episode, however patient they might be."

"Noted." John breathes in and out. "And you weren't wrong."

Harold twitches. He's still in John's arms, though, the contact between them a steady warm presence in a conversation that would have been unbearable without it. "Tonight... I can't quite explain it. These sessions make a sort of pattern, a unique one each time. Sometimes it forms quite organically: other times, it requires thought, and planning. After you made Ms. Morgan climax for the second time, the pattern remained unfinished. She called me out, quite rightly, on leaving an unfair share of the work to her, since she had borne the brunt of the planning up to that point."

It makes John dizzy just to consider. _Pattern_ , fuck. "I should have been the one to finish it," he says.

He feels as well as hears Harold exhales. "As I said: I took liberties. Next time, I promise, I will leave it to you."

It's not the promise John wants, but it'll do. "I'll promise not to do anything I don't want if you'll promise the same."

Harold retreats just long enough to look John in the eye and shake his hand. Then he herds John towards the back room, and John gladly takes off his clothes and crawls under the covers to lay his head on Harold's chest.

~~

They settle into a rhythm after that. Harold texts him the non-numbers' (as John begins to think of them) details. There usually isn't much: a first name, an address, maybe some additional instructions like _Key under the welcoming mat_ or _Ring the doorbell three times._

So John meets a curvy woman named Holly, whom he holds up and fucks against her kitchen wall; a large, heavily muscled man named Jose who politely asks for a blowjob and returns the favor; and Alex, a short, spiky-haired person of unknown gender who asks to tie John up (he declines) and to fuck him with a dildo (he agrees). Good, clean fun. 

When John receives the text _George, room 502 at Alexandria hotel, the password is cassowary_ , he makes his way there with anticipation thrumming under his skin. The non-numbers have been spaced apart irregularly, and John finds he enjoys not knowing exactly when or how he's getting off next, trusting it to Harold's judgement. 

He knocks on the door, gives the password when prompted. The door opens to show a guy wearing heavy eyeliner, ruffly lacy underwear, and nothing else. He says, "Come in," in a curiously flat voice.

John does. "George, I presume?" 

The guy hesitates just a second before nodding. Not his real name then, not that it matters.

John takes off his jacket. Harold is silent in his earpiece. He hasn't intervened much in any of the non-numbers since Zoe, at most making small logistical asides like telling John where the condoms are. 

George just watches him with a blank face. The panties hide very little, though, and he's half-hard. 

John decides to take that as a positive sign and moves in for a kiss. George's mouth opens under his, lax, weirdly passive. John half expects his skin to be cold and waxy when he curls his hand around George's upper arm; instead it's warm, mostly soft with a little bit of coarse hair. John gives a gentle, experimental push, and George moves with him towards the bed.

Once they get there, though, he just lies still, looking blank. He's fully hard now, tenting his panties, but John's struck with unease all the same. "What do you like?" he asks. 

George shrugs. "I like whatever."

That doesn't really narrow the field. John sits beside him on the bed, rubbing his hand over George's panties, his hard dick. George's face doesn't so much as twitch. "Is this okay?"

"Sure. Whatever you want." His voice has no inflection, either. 

It's like making out with a very realistic mannequin. John braces himself to finish this with minimum awkwardness.

"Mr. Reese," he hears in his earphone. He breathes out a sigh of relief. Harold will know how to fix this mess.

But Harold only says, disapprovingly, "Did you forget your promise, or did you think I forgot how to read you?"

John grits his teeth. He's spared coming up a reply, though, since the very next moment Harold speaks again. "Never mind, change of plan. How fast can you make it to East Side?"

The answer, it turns out, is just in time for the number to get the jump on him. 

"Mr. Aber, please just listen," John says, trying for soothing. By the way Aber's hands tighten on the baseball bat he's holding, it's not working.

"No." Aber's hands shake on the bat's handle. "I want an explanation, and I want it now. Who are you?"

"A concerned third party?" John is beginning to really wish he'd never heard that line. 

On the plus side, Aber doesn't hit very hard, certainly not enough to break bone. He flinches just before making contact, up until the point where Root shows up and pistol-whips him.

"You're kidding, right?" she says while untying John. "You let _him_ get you? What was he trying to do, anyway, give you a massage?"

John grimaces at her. "Nobody has standards anymore." He's gotten tortured enough times that comparing methods is practically a hobby. 

"I know, right?" Root pokes at a bruise on John's arm. "This is such a waste of tiny blood vessels, I can't get over it."

"If either of you says they died in vein," Finch says over the earpiece, "I will be cross."

Root grins. "Aw, Harry, you take all the fun out of it."

Harold answers her, grim and terse, and suddenly John wants to do something wild, reckless. He takes out his earpiece. "Hey," he tells Root. "Think you could've done better?"

She snorts. "In my sleep. Why?"

John gives her a slow smirk. "I have a proposition for you."

~~

"So let's discuss terms and conditions." Root has a knife in her hands, turning it around and around as though in unthinking habit. John bets every twitch is calculated. "No long term damage, right?"

"And nothing that puts me out of action for longer than a few hours," John says. He doesn't know if broken bones count as long term damage to Root. Better to be specific.

Root's eyes gleam. "So. How about we make this interesting?"

"No sex," John says. Harold may not _own_ him (and the thought stings, despite everything), but having sex with someone else without Harold's knowledge and permission feels like betrayal. 

Root rolls her eyes. "Uh, yeah, _no_. I was going to say, you know how normally people have safewords in these situations?"

John gives her a cautious nod. He's tied to a chair again, but he could get out if necessary. He might have to hurt her to do that. He can live with that, but as long as he doesn't have to, he'd rather not endanger their working relationship.

"I thought we could use something else." She smirks. "I will ask you a question, and if you want to stop, all you have to do is answer."

"Like what my name is?" John hazards. Root already has access to the Machine. What information does John have that she'd want? "The one I was born with."

"No, sorry, I don't actually care," Root says. "I was thinking more like, what Harold likes in bed."

John keeps his face blank. He and Harold aren't exactly secretive, but they're not demonstrative, either. "What makes you think I'd know?"

"Evasion, nice," Root says approvingly. "So I'm gonna start with the knife and move on from there, 'kay?"

She doesn't stick to the blade for very long. When she moves on, it's cigarette burns, which makes John a little nostalgic frankly. Nobody smokes anymore.

"Yeah, filthy habit," Root says, putting out one last butt on his stomach. 

John doesn't let himself tense. He has his imagery firmly in place, a memory of watching a movie with Harold, their sides touching and Harold murmuring commentary. 

The sudden uptick in Harold's voice isn't a part of the memory. It takes John another moment to see Harold entering the room, face gone entirely white, eyes very wide. 

Whatever Harold said, Root's already answering him. "Totally consensual, Harold, _relax_."

Harold's rapid breaths are actually freaking John out a little bit. "I'm fine, Finch."

Harold turns and points a shaking finger on him. "Very obviously you are _not_."

"Hey, don't kinkshame us," Root says. "If you don't want to watch, the door's that way."

Harold's mouth closes and opens. He snags a second chair and sits down in it, glaring at them.

"Or stay right where you are, sure," Root mutters. In her more usual, upbeat tone, she tells John, "Are you ready to answer my question now?"

"I'm sorry," John says. "Have we started? I wasn't paying attention."

Root giggles. Then she gets the electrodes out.

The third voltage she tries makes John convulse. Just a little bit, nothing he won't recover from after a little rest, but it upsets Harold, which in turn upsets John.

Still, he's not going to answer Root's question with Harold right there. A guy has his pride.

"What do you want to know?" Harold snaps after Root asks again.

"I wasn't talking to you," Root says. She's got her head turned away from Harold, which means John has a good view of her shit-eating grin. "John and I are having a discussion on what you like in bed. I mean, you could--"

"Mostly cuddling," Harold says. His tone is very precise. "Very rarely, some fellatio. Will you let him up now?"

"--cut our fun short," Root says, blinking. She does let John up. Almost before he's untied, Harold is at his side, hustling him away, muttering about medical care.

"I said I'm fine," John says, trying to shake Harold off. His body isn't quite obeying him, though.

Harold's grip tightens for a moment before he lets go. "Of course."

He doesn't sleep in Harold's bed that night. The next morning, Harold texts him, but there's no name, only the address of one of Harold's safe houses.

"Mr. Reese," Harold says when he lets him in. The address twists John's stomach uneasily. Generally Harold calls him by his first name, now, when a number isn't involved. "I hope you're quite recovered from yesterday's encounter?"

"Sure. I did specify nothing that would put me out of commission," John says. "I'm not totally out of my mind."

If he thought saying that would put Harold at ease, he was evidently wrong: Harold's lips tighten into a thin white line. "Strip, please."

That's new. John takes off his clothes, wondering at his apprehension. Harold isn't going to hurt him, and if he is, John can take it.

Well. If Harold really put his mind to it... if there _is_ anyone in the world who could destroy John without actually killing him, he's standing right here and looking quietly furious.

Even so, he stands where Harold directs him, on tiptoes with his arms outstretched. Harold ties him in a position John is familiar with, wrists slightly higher than John's head. He can't sag if he wants to keep breathing.

"Is this alright?" Harold gives him a penetrating look.

John nods. "Sure," he rasps. His feet are already protesting the unnatural position. 

"If there was something you wanted and weren't getting, you only had to say." Harold's voice is dangerously soft. He's walking - no, he's _prowling_ around John. You'd think he couldn't, with his bad leg, his odd gait, but his eyes are radiating intent strong enough that nothing else registers.

John's throat feels dry. Power of suggestion, maybe, throwback to being interrogated, denied water. 

He better keep telling himself that. "I'm guessing you're unhappy about that thing with Root," John tries.

"Why would I be?" Harold's voice is deceptively mild. He's still got his _jacket_ on, surveying John in his three-piece suit like a rich investor in an art gallery. "You've done nothing counter to my requests, as far as I know." He comes closer, lays a gentle hand against John's cheek. His next words come out at a whisper. "Do I have a reason to be unhappy, Mr. Reese?"

John desperately gulps for breath. His dick _leaps_ , so abruptly hard the tip is rubbing against Harold's bespoke pants.

If Harold minds, or notices, he doesn't show a sign. In fact, he looks like an idea just occurred to him. "Raise your left foot, Mr. Reese."

John does. He doesn't think about it. His arms hurt, and his leg, but he doesn't care. Harold's _looking_ at him, appraising him.

"Good," Harold says, offhanded, the way he does when his code compiles on the first try. John grunts, feeling his face get redder. "Is this what you wanted from our Ms. Groves?"

That sentence is so wrong that John doesn't know where to start. " _Our_ Ms. Groves?"

Harold makes a small annoyed expression at John, which makes him want to giggle. "You know what I mean."

"Mostly it seemed like fun," John says. But now that Harold is looking more like the guy who bitches about John getting bullet holes in his jackets than like Harold Finch, Destroyer of Worlds, it's easier to admit, "And I kinda wanted to piss you off."

Harold exhales. He looks small and tired, all of sudden, and John abruptly wants out of the ropes. 

"Can I..." John says, tugging on the ties, and Harold immediately gets him out, chafing at his wrists. John doesn't really need it - his muscles were holding up, and Harold tied him carefully - but it's a sweet gesture.

More importantly, once John is untied he can reach out and pull Harold into a hug. After the first moment, Harold hugs back. His hands run up and down John's back, reassuring. 

"I'm sorry," John mumbles.

Harold kisses his shoulder. "That does leave the question of why you wanted to make me angry."

For about a second John considers playing innocent, asking _Do I ever need a reason?_ Harold's a guy who chooses his words carefully, though. John teases him, irritates him; he doesn't make Harold angry, definitely not on purpose.

He opens his mouth. No words come out. He finds himself looking at the ropes again.

Harold is following his gaze, and his intentions. "Would it make it easier?"

John nods gratefully. 

Letting Harold tie him up goes more smoothly now, even if he starts out tired. Harold won't let him get hurt by accident. If he gets hurt, it'll be because Harold wants him to, and that's fine.

"John," Harold says, and John isn't prepared for how _tender_ his voice is, how hard it hits John to be tied up with Harold's compassion aimed at him like a laser beam. "Why did you want to make me angry?"

"I was angry," John murmurs. "You set me up to fail."

Harold stills, looks briefly preoccupied. "By matching you up with people you found hard to read?" For a moment the set of his shoulders is defensive: then he sighs and relaxes. "I might have been pushing you, yes."

John doesn't ask why. It's not a good position for asking questions. It is one for acceptance, though. "I liked it when you told me what to do," he says. He's not purposefully using a seductive tone, which is just as well, since his seductive tone never works anyway. "I liked making people happy."

"...And following my instructions," Harold finishes. 

John nods, letting his head bob a little. He feels dizzy, but in a nice way, like drinking with friends after a good mission. "I'm sorry for not taking no for an answer."

Harold frowns. "I'm afraid you lost me. When have I told you no?"

_I don't own you._ It's not a no, but the words hurt even so, even as a memory, even when he has so much more from Harold than he had any right to expect. "I gave you permission." John's not sure if he's making sense, or if he cares. "You never took it."

"John." Harold's hand is on his cheek again. John lets himself lean into it, greedy. "What permissions were you granting me, exactly?"

"Everything." It seems silly that Harold didn't know. John was as obvious as he knew how to be. Which, granted, isn't very, but isn't Harold supposed to be a genius or something?

"I'm going to need more specificity," Harold chides him, but his voice is still so weirdly gentle. He's so close that John could rub up against his thigh if he moved even a little. "Tell me, John. What kind of hold do you want me to have over you? Do you want me to have complete control over when you get off, and with whom?"

Screw _could_ , John _is_ rubbing off against him now. Also nodding furiously, because _yes_.

Harold doesn't stop there. "Do you want me to tell you exactly how to satisfy your intimate partners?" John gives a shaky moan that rounds up to _Yes_. "Do you want to ask for permission before every time you come, even by yourself?"

"Yes." John's eyes are glassy. His voice is hoarse. "Harold, now, please, yes..."

"Yes," Harold agrees. Both his hands are on John's face, and John could swear that was the contact that made him come, rather than the soft friction of wool against his cock.

Once Harold unties him again, John more or less collapses to the floor. He ends up on his knees, a good position to nuzzle Harold's thighs. It might be a weird thing to do. John might be getting his own come on his face. He doesn't care.

"Ah," Harold says. He sounds a little strained. "I did mention that, very rarely... well, this appears to be one of those times, would you be so kind--"

John has Harold's fly and his own mouth open before the end of that sentence. He stops just before bringing the two together, making eye contact. Harold smiles at him, a little bashful, but his cock is beautifully hard on John's lips, velvety on his tongue when John takes him in.

Time seems to move weirdly, slow and sweet like molasses and too fast even so. Harold's shuddering under his hands, making little sounds that John memorizes for later use. He's pretty sure this isn't the last time he'll get to do this, but it might be a while. Can't hurt to enjoy this while he can.

Especially the way Harold grabs his head and fucks John's mouth for the last few thrusts, thrillingly selfish in a way Harold so rarely lets himself be. John swallows and leans back on his haunches, licking his lips.

"John." Harold's smile trembles. It's more naked than John has ever seen him, with or without clothes. "John. Come to bed."

~~

EPILOGUE

John leans against the doorframe and debates ringing the bell again.

Just as he reaches for it, the door opens. "Sorry!" The person on the other side is a woman in her thirties. She's in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair messy. Her wide eyes grow wider when she gets a good look at John. "Uh. Holy wow. I figured those pics couldn't be real."

"I wouldn't play such a prank," Harold says in his earpiece. "She knows me as Harold Crake, if you need to mention me by name."

“Hi, Katie.” John just smiles at her. "Can I come in?"

"Oh. Oh!" She makes way for him, fidgeting. "Of course. Um. Anything to drink?"

She's keeping a careful distance from him, which John reads as fear, but Harold tells him, "She very much wants to touch you, but is afraid you'll find her repulsive or too forward. It would be good if you initiated."

So John walks to her (slowly, careful not to spook her), gently cups her face in one hand. She trembles, but her eyes close and her lips part slightly.

Once they're kissing it's easier. She tastes like coffee. A lot of it. Her arms come around his back, her grip surprisingly strong. She grinds against him for a single unselfconscious moment before breaking away, blushing.

"We could shower together," John says. She smells a little like stale sweat - not enough to be off-putting to him, but she'll probably be more comfortable after it. Plus, hey, shower sex.

She leads him to the bathroom happily enough. Once there, though, she starts stalling. "Clean towels are under the sink, um, I'm sure I had an extra toothbrush here somewhere..." she goes abruptly silent, shoulders hunching.

"Redirect her," Harold says. "Gently. She hasn't had a lot of sleep in the last few days."

Somehow, John managed to guess that. He puts his hands around her waist and kisses her neck until she shivers and melts against him. He tugs at her pants. She shimmies out of them and breaks away from him to take off her shirt, too. She's not wearing a bra. 

"She'd appreciate affectionate touches even more than sexual or romantic ones, I think," Harold says, and John bends to rub his cheek against hers.

That gets her to put her arms around John's neck and press herself against him. Strike another point for Finch.

The earpiece is waterproof. John isn't sure if he's grateful for it or annoyed by it, especially when Harold makes little remarks on caution in a slippery environment. John can't even talk back to him to make awful innuendo.

"She's self-conscious about her stomach," Harold says. "Don't touch her there."

John notes this. He cups her breast in one hand, rolling her nipple between his fingers. He rests his other hand on her thigh, pressing himself against her back, letting her feel his erection. She presses back with a happy sigh.

Harold's nagging keeps John from going to his knees and eating her out, but it's a close thing.

"Towel her dry," Harold tells him when they're out of the shower. "You know, I really did expect you to refuse at least some of my choices of partners for you this far. I commend the broadness of your tastes."

John goes to his knees on the bathroom floor tile to dry Katie’s feet, murmuring to Harold, "Are you calling me slutty?"

"Certainly not," Harold says, indignant. "Merely grateful for this happy coincidence." John smiles and gets back on his feet.

Bodies don't matter that much, to be honest. If John can tell his partners are enjoying themselves and that Harold likes watching him with them, for whatever reason, that's hot enough for him.

In her bedroom, Harold tells him to ask her about toys. She opens her bedside drawer and fishes out a couple of dildos and a bullet vibe. 

"I wonder," Harold says, "if I should allow you to come while fucking her, or make you hold it longer."

John hides his sudden flush by sliding down the bed and lying between her parted legs.

Harold goes on, like he's discussing dinner options. "On one hand, Katie would enjoy seeing you climax, and you would enjoy the additional stimulus as you climax."

John sucks on her clit. That, plus her resulting moan, muffles his own whimpers nicely.

"On the other hand," Harold says, "there is something to be said for delayed gratification, and I've noticed you like to see me before you climax." The last part of the sentence is offered almost shyly, like John's interest is what Harold finds unlikely about this whole thing.

John breaks from her clit, kissing her thighs. "And how would you feel about that?" he says softly.

While Harold thinks that over, John makes Katie come. It takes some time, but John's having fun. So is Katie, if he's any judge.

Then Katie is splayed on her back, panting happily, and Harold says, "You should initiate intercourse now."

The prim wording should probably not be this endearing. John waves a condom at Katie. At her nod, he puts it on, moving inside her.

"At any moment I could tell you to stop," Harold says quietly.

Katie is incredibly hot and wet inside, but that's not what makes John groan.

"And you would." Harold says it like he's outlining a process for John, one step after another, no doubt in his voice. No command in it, either: commands can be disobeyed. Harold is just explaining how things work. "You would pull out, and use the toys on her until she has had enough or I decide you should come home, and let yourself ache. Go a little faster," he adds, as an aside.

John's aching right now, his balls drawing tight, Harold's voice sending currents down his spine. Under him, Katie's moaning, eyes glassy. He wonders vaguely what she's seeing. 

"Use your thumb," Harold says, then, "yes, very good," when John gets working on her clit again. "Lick it, let her see you enjoying her taste."

She likes that, likes even better the slicker rub he gets when he puts his hand back on her. Her hips pump up and she makes a hiccuping little sob, contracting around him.

"John," Harold says, "I don't want you to hurt. Come for me, please."

John throws his head back and obeys, unthinking.

~~

He gets her off twice more after that, using her toys. In the lull between orgasms, she tries to apologize to him, bewilderingly - John can't figure out what for - but then she goes all glassy-eyed and limp again, smiling, so he has to be doing something right.

She goes right to sleep after orgasm number four. John covers her with the blanket, goes to wash off, and - at Harold's direction - leaves her a note saying, "Had a great time. For repeat performance, call," and leaving one of the cards Harold had made for these sessions. The names and numbers vary, but all of them lead to a cell phone account Harold maintains. 

"Tape it to her monitor," Harold says, "no, to the top - don't smudge the screen."

As John does, he catches a glimpse of mathematical symbols. He doesn't even try to parse the accompanying text.

~~

At the end of the day, he asks Harold about it. "What made you choose her for me?"

"We're both members in a certain online forum,” Harold says. ”There was an open thread, and she made some personal statements. She seemed like she'd enjoy the attention.” Harold considers, and corrects: ”She sounded lonely, and certainly she deserves some downtime."

John's head is pillowed on Harold's stomach. They're supposed to be watching a movie, but John hasn't really been paying attention. "Downtime from what?" He considers what he saw, what he knows about Harold. "Is she a programmer?"

"Mathematician, actually." Harold shifts, just enough to scritch John at the base of his skull. It's a grossly unfair move, enough so that John can't even complain. "She uses formal logic to examine the moral implications of the tyranny of the majority, by defining a filter on the set of all interactions in a set group."

Christ. "Yeah, definitely sounds like someone who could use a break," John says.

"She's a lovely person, really," Harold says. "Quite a relief from your usual flood of self-identified rationalist."

John has no idea what Harold's talking about, but so long as he keeps scritching him, they're good. They watch the movie, or pretend to, in John's case.

"I used to think this not-number thing is just about me," John tells Harold as the ending credits roll. "But you really like this, don't you?"

"I do enjoy having possessions of high quality," Harold admits. "At the same time, I hate seeing a well-made instrument go unused."

"Is that all I am to you, Harold? Just an instrument?" John gazes at Harold through lowered lashes. He's pretty sure Harold knows he's smiling inside.

"Not _just_ an instrument." Harold sounds affronted. "An extremely important instrument, one that is literally priceless. The prize of my collection, you might say." His hand tightens in John's hair.

John doesn't even try to reign in the urge to preen.

**Author's Note:**

> The consensual torture refers to the John/Root scene, which is nonsexual and not described in graphic detail. (May also fail the "safe" part of SSC; YMMV, but they certainly both know what the risks are!) 
> 
> In some of the scenes, John's partners aren't aware that Harold is watching and directing.


End file.
